For so the night will more than pay the hopeless longing of the day
by thejacinthsong
Summary: ("Caring is a disadvantage, Ms. Hooper." He would remind her each time. "I don't care," Molly would snap back, because if Sherlock couldn't break her of the habit then his brother certainly wasn't going to be able to.) Because Molly Hooper spent two years waiting for the news of Sherlock's death, and suddenly he came whisking back into her morgue like he owned it.


_A/N: This is being published despite the uproar and complaining I see on Tumblr. I dislike the idea that Molly could suddenly accept Sherlock's words in TRF, despite the implied years of manipulation. Sherlock, or at least the one I write, needs to do a little bit more than "I need you." But anyway - it's all in the interest of giving each other another version of the stories we play out in our minds, I think._

* * *

_By day I shall be well again!  
For so the night will more than pay  
The hopeless longings of the day._

_- Matthew Arnold_

* * *

Her day had been long: three different bodies, each with its own heart-wrenching tragedy, accompanied by hysterical family members, who refused to believe Molly's conclusions and shouted abuse that hit their marks all too well. Harold had done nothing to help from his office, and only shut his door to muffle the accusations. Molly could only stand there, unable to bring herself to scold or snap at the mourning family, so she had held back her tears, and had apologised profusely for their loss.

The sporadic moments of peace had been spent buried in paperwork, avoiding the not-so-subtle stares and whispers that had been given new life with the news reports of Moriarty's true nature and the subsequent humiliation of Kitty Riley (who _still _left messages on her voicemail). Molly was tired and sore and even the uplifting news that Sherlock would no longer be cursed as a fake didn't reach her, because she still hadn't heard from him and it had been two years now since he had left her flat, a week after his orchestrated suicide. Any time her resolve crumbled, she would visit Mycroft, who would stare down at her coldly, and refuse to give her any hope.

("Caring is a disadvantage, Ms. Hooper." He would remind her each time.

"I don't _care,_" Molly would snap back, because if Sherlock couldn't break her of the habit then his brother certainly wasn't going to be able to.)

In a fit of anger at the paediatric nurse, who, upon finishing flirting with Harold, had decided to follow Molly around for the last dragging minutes of her shift and begged for details on Sherlock, Molly brushed her off and locked herself in the changing room. She lingered in the shower, seeking refuge under the burning spray, her muscles reluctantly relaxing under the heavy beat.

She cried only a little: two years of unrelenting fear and grief and lies had spent too many tears. She had barely anything left, except for the consistent and raw ache in her chest that followed her in every waking second; that jumped every time she opened her door or mailbox. She had spent two years grasping for any dregs of information possibly relating to Sherlock. She was burnt out and stretched impossibly wide, and she wasn't much more alive than Sherlock.

Molly checked her phone as she dried herself, deleting the texts pleading her to join Meena and Carol at The Fox. She was consumed by her secrecy, and she could no longer face the people closest to her, scared that the words might come tumbling out with the slightest push. So she distanced herself. She struggled into a jumper once belonging to Adam, where the semblance of _home _still clung to the cotton by threads. It cleared her mind and helped her put herself back together; to face the world she had to lie to.

Molly sighed deeply, gathering her things and opening her locker, removing several journals that she would need to take home. Her eyes briefly flicked to the mirror, dreading the sight of her no doubt flushed face. But instead a ghost stared back at her and she dropped everything she was holding with a gasp and whipped around, falling back against the lockers.

Sherlock Holmes stood tall and smug, an upward quirk to his lips that slowly melted away as his eyes ran over her; a gaunt expression pierced through his veneer that contradicted his smirk, and the pinched quality to his face became clearer.

"Oh, Molly Hooper." Sherlock whispered, the same deep voice that haunted her dreams. "I am sorry, Forgive me, _please." _Molly nodded vacantly, not sure what she was forgiving, or if it was even real.

"It is." Sherlock said quickly, reassuringly, and maybe she had said that last bit out loud. "This isn't a dream." He looked as she felt, exhausted and pained, his face thinner and more serious than she remembered. He had a noticeable bruise on his cheek, a split lip and red, recently bloodied nose, and Molly guessed that Sherlock had already told John. Sherlock shifted guiltily when she voiced the suspicion out loud.

"Yes. He _attacked _me. _Three _times." Sherlock grumbled, hunching his shoulders. "He is being completely irrational about the entire thing. But I have a plan."

Molly considered - for a split second - telling Sherlock about John's handling of his supposed death, how John had attacked Mycroft at the funeral, about how he wouldn't settle until Sally and Phillip were removed from the church. The drunken calls in the smallest hours of the morning, how Greg had had to remove John's firearm, and how after all that, John had retreated into himself and away from everyone else. She opened her mouth to snap at his blasé dismissal of John's feelings, but the darkness in his eyes stopped her.

Sherlock already knew.

"He'll come around." Is what she finally managed, lost under Sherlock's scrutiny. She was sure that he was learning every moment of the last two years, and it was the look she had dreaded once upon a time, because something nasty or insincere was sure to follow. Now she feared the kindness. She had been smothered with sympathy and pity for too long. They were nothing but _words._

"Of course he will." She repeated, her voice cracking, and a dam suddenly crumpled. She tried to turn away and cover her face (she was _sick _of her _weakness), _but strong hands gripped her arms and crushed her to Sherlock's solid and real form, just on the side of painful. She welcomed it, anything, _everything, _but the stillness and desperation of simply _waiting , _and she was surprised to discover that she had not run out of tears; she had been storing them, because they _flooded _out of her now, soaking the rough material of his signature Belstaff (and how wonderful it felt to see it once again).

"I'm sorry Molly." Sherlock mumbled into her hair, over and over until she lost count, squeezing her closer. She felt his own tears against her ear: quiet and desperate, as relief surged through her. She was free, he was safe; they all were. Things could go back to... _normal._

She stiffened then, and her weeping cut off abruptly as she caught her breath with the sudden slam back to reality. She had counted when he had needed her to. There was no longer a reason for that, and she wouldn't stick around to suffer through that painful, inevitable change.

So she pushed him off of her and wiped at her face, trying to salvage what was left of her; what she hadn't given him to be thoughtlessly destroyed and left at her feet. She didn't look at him. She _couldn't._

"I'm glad you're back, Sherlock." She said lowly, picking up her bag and dropped files. She shut her locker. "I suppose I'll see you around, yeah?" She almost cringed at the despondency in her voice, as she chanced a quick glance up at him. He was silent with his own unease, and did not offer her any words. So she walked away and flipped open her phone to set a time with Meena and Carol.

* * *

"Holy shit." Carol said when Molly approached them at the bar. "You look like you need a fucking drink. Did someone come back to _life _in the midst of an autopsy? You look like you've seen a fucking ghost!"

_I did, _Molly thought, stifling hysterics and giving into Meena's fierce hug. She slammed back the shot Carol shoved into her hands. _And I buried him._

* * *

The problem with remaining friends with married people, was that inevitably they would try and set you up.

"You're thirty-four, sweetie," Meena told her as if Molly had forgotten. "Don't you want to settle down? You've become too picky after that detective bloke. What about Tom? He was lovely! He was so keen on you too! Why'd you break that off again?" Molly shrugged, her mind a pleasant buzz.

"Didn't click." That was the lie she continued to feed them, unable for the truth to be voiced: that she couldn't stomach the man who looked so much like Sherlock, without his wits or brains. It was a bad reason to ditch a person, but Molly was old friends with masochism.

"Fuck settling down, Meens," Carol hiccuped over another margarita. "What Mols needs is a good _shag. _You've got to move on from that bloody detective with the funny hat. Or was it his name that was funny? Anyway - you need a rebound!"

"She never _dated _him." Meena argued as they both ignored the silent Molly, still sipping at her Tequila Sunrise.

"Doesn't matter - she was mad for the bloke. _Rebound. _Careless, meaningless sex. Use him once, maybe twice, then toss him aside. It'd be cathartic." Carol lifted her drink in a silent cheer. "I'm telling you Mols - you need to get laid. Settling down is bullshit - have all the sex you can before to resign yourself to someone who gives up once they put a ring on your hand." Meena then started the inevitable "married sex" fight, and Molly continued to disregard their snipping at one another, content to float in her vaguely tipsy state.

"All right, ladies?" A low burr interrupted by Molly's ear, a broad, friendly looking man with a scotch in one hand, and a soft grin that decorated his tanned face quite nicely. He nodded at Carol and Meena politely as they tittered, but his eyes were on Molly. She sat up straighter as her "friends" slipped away, cursing their existence. "Or just the one, then, I suppose." His smile was wide and guileless, and he was fit and Scottish, and Molly started to see the logic in Carol's argument. Maybe she needed to exorcise her ghost.

"I'm Molly." She said clearly, placing her hand into his rough one with a gentle shake.

"Craig. Can I get you a drink?" He nodded to the bar, waiting for her reply, and even though Molly was still halfway through her first one, she pushed it aside firmly and leaned towards him.

* * *

The sex was good, and she felt refreshed and renewed the next day, like her life was finally moving forwards. Craig cooked her breakfast and asked her to dinner later that week. He programmed her number into his phone and accompanied her to the cab when she finally had to leave, giving her a lingering goodbye kiss and only let go when the cabbie honked crossly at them.

Her spirits were higher and the world seemed bright again... and then she turned on her phone. Greg, Mrs. Hudson and John had all left several messages, a blur of fury and elation. John was stiff - Sherlock told him about her involvement, she guessed, but Mrs. Hudson was overjoyed, and Greg was gruffly happy. She replied quickly and vaguely, unsure how truthful Sherlock wanted her to be.

When she arrived back to her flat, she spent the day scrubbing it clean of the last few years, ridding herself of the baggage she has carried for far too long. She called her brothers and they made tentative plans for a weekend visit and then met Meena and Carol for tea, where she allowed herself a little giddiness over Craig. Both of her friends were thrilled for her, and Molly basked in the lack of pity showed to her for the first time in _so very long._

* * *

A few days later John invited her to 221B for a celebratory drink at Sherlock and John's first successful case back together as a team. Molly went after some deliberation and to Craig's dismay, who had wanted to keep her in his bed. She was a little late as a result.

Mrs. Hudson and Greg hugged her enthusiastically, while John, still clearly struggling with the bomb Sherlock lobbed at him, clapped her shoulder awkwardly and introduced his 'almost-fiancée,' who hugged her close, warm and welcoming. She sent John to get Molly a glass of champagne and promised to work on John (Molly decided she liked Mary then and there).

When Sherlock appeared, just as Molly was finishing off her champagne, and laughing at Mary's account of her "almost-engagement," he looked her up and down without a word, clenched his jaw and his fists and pulled John away and out of the flat to "address the cameras."

"That's funny," Mrs. Hudson said when the door had shut firmly behind them. "Sherlock said he wasn't going to bother with those vultures." Mary nodded thoughtfully, her eyes trailing to Molly, who shrugged and picked up a biscuit.

When they returned, Sherlock barricaded himself in his room, while John and Greg grumbled at how unchanged he was. Molly disagreed, but didn't say anything, excusing herself early to meet Craig for dinner.

* * *

"You've found yourself another boyfriend then?" Molly jumped - it was almost three in the morning, and the morgue had been quiet for hours - turning towards the cold voice. Sherlock observed her emotionlessly from the doorway. "Are you certain he isn't psychotic? You haven't known him long, might surprise you yet." Molly flushed almost viciously, anger striking her hard. His tone was drenched in contempt and she had had enough.

"No." She told him, the words flying out of her. "Not after everything that has happened. You do not get to disappear for two years, without a _word _to let me know that you aren't dead or _dying _in some alleyway, leaving me to lie and worry so much it was like being _constantly _sick, and then flit back into my life like nothing has changed. Unless you have hard, _concrete _proof that I'm being used by another man to get to _you, _then you do not get to terrorise the men I date. Just _stop_ it, Sherlock_." _When she finally managed to cut her babbling tirade off, she was close to tears again and Sherlock had a queer look on his face, like he was seeing her in a new light.

He bowed his head and fidgeted. "I... _apologise." _He said, almost by rote at this point. _Words, Molly, just words._

"I know Sherlock, you always are." She grabbed the files she needed and stormed away, locking herself in the office and refusing to emerge until her replacement knocked hesitantly on the door.

* * *

Craig was the most fun she has had in years. Their time together was easy and fun, so free of the emotional oppression her life had become. She was enjoying it; she enjoyed him and the sex and their late night chats during commercials between reruns of _Doctor Who _and _Friends, _shallow and casual and _wonderful._

He was sweet and funny and smart, and being with him was like catching her breath in the calm before the storm. He liked rugby and football, and his sculpted muscles spoke well of his performances. She watched a few of his matches, memorising the number on his back and admiring the way his muscles bunched and sprung.

She replaced her wardrobe in a fit of restlessness and found herself walking taller through the halls at Bart's. People stopped stepping on her, and she stopped letting them. The tremor in her voice that had haunted her through countless hours of speech therapy finally petered off into nothing. When Sherlock, Greg and John stopped by, John and Greg lingered talking to her, keeping her up to date with John and Mary's wedding plans and Greg's successes at work. Sherlock barely spoke to her, their interactions limited to a single searching look before he would move to the body he needed or his usual microscope.

Through John, Mary and Molly began to meet up, grabbing coffee or lunch at first, and later dinner and drinks, occasionally joined by other friends. Mary was aglow and sensible in preparing for the wedding, including Molly more and more into helping with the decisions.

"Sherlock of course ensures that he has the final say of everything!" Mary laughed. "He pretends to be above it all, but Mrs. Hudson swears she caught him watching Youtube videos to refresh his _Waltz!" _Molly chuckled dutifully, her heart constricting painfully.

* * *

Invitations arrived in the mail, "save the dates" for John and Mary's wedding. Molly only RSVPed for herself. Three months with Craig, but it still wasn't anywhere near serious enough for them to attend a wedding together. He would be visiting family that weekend anyway. She sent the invite back and marked the day on her calendar. She found a bright yellow dress while out shopping with Mary - she thought it was cheery and appropriate for a summer wedding.

Their engagement party took place at the Fox, and Craig joined her because he was free. He draped himself over her every chance he got, whispering into her ear, his hand wrapped tantalisingly around her hip. He flattered Mary the way he did with everyone (though it was enough for a frown to start forming on John's face), joked around with Greg and managed a smile out of John. He tried to introduce himself to Sherlock, but he only scowled at Craig and slipped away to hover around the bar. He didn't speak to Molly aside from the cursory glance, and Molly did not chase.

John, Mary, Greg, Mrs Hudson: they were all painfully aware of the distance between Sherlock and Molly, and even though a part of her wanted to ask what he had said, Molly refused the probing glances that shifted her way. She was tired and she had wasted years on him. So she didn't give John's silent reproach any thought. She congratulated them both and then returned to Craig. They went back to his flat together and defiled his kitchen table. Molly then showered quickly and declined the over-polite offer for wine, in favour of returning home because she was on call and Toby needed to be fed.

She ended up spending the night undisturbed, lounging on the couch with Toby while she flipped through reruns and crap reality programmes. If she checked her phone a little more than would be casual, she told herself she was bored and was waiting for Craig to text, rather than being _bored _and waiting for a demand that would take her back to the morgue.

* * *

If Molly had had the time, she would have laughed herself into a hysteria, because _of course _a wedding where John Watson was the groom and Sherlock Holmes was the best man would result in capturing a murderer. As far as she knew, John's friend would be fine, and the _photographer _of all people had been arrested.

The crime had not prevented the reception from progressing: after Sherlock's haunted waltz that brought everyone back to tears, _again, _the DJ had taken over, and had set a more upbeat tempo thrumming in the room. She was taking a break to watch everyone, when she found herself following Sherlock out of the reception hall, unable to let him bear that expression of grief on his face alone. She knew she shouldn't, that she had spent six months forcing herself to move on from him, but it had been a confusing and jarring day, and she was alone and a little tipsy and she _missed him. _

She couldn't explain the utter importance of following him, but it was there.

She followed him down the stone path, toward the circle of trees with an elaborate marble fountain in the centre. He stopped in front of the fountain, staring down at the little pool. She slowed her gait, although she didn't pretend that she would surprise him. Slowly, she shuffled beside him and glanced up at his face. Instead of speaking, Sherlock plucked a two-pound coin from his trouser pocket, and flicked it into the water.

"What did you wish for?" Molly asked softly, watching as the glimmering coin sunk to the bottom and settled on dozens more coins. Sherlock scoffed at her question, but it sounded far more emotional than she thought he intended.

"I was under the impression that you weren't supposed to tell." He replied almost crossly, deflating when she caught his eyes with a pointed look.

"Are you okay?" Molly asked tentatively, although she didn't expect any sincerity or kindness in his answer. Sherlock surprised her, and lifted a shoulder dully.

"It did not occur to me that I would return to so much change." He muttered. "I had not anticipated that everyone would have moved on without me."

"Moving on doesn't mean letting go." Molly told him gently, and this time, his scorn was much stronger.

"Mary is _pregnant _and they are _newlyweds. _I suspect Mrs. Hudson's warnings will in fact prove to be correct: I will no longer be a large part of their lives."

Hesitantly (and stifling the urge to whack his over-dramatic insecurities out of him), Molly placed a hand on his arm, but he jerked away so quickly and violently that it physically hurt. "Sherlock - John loves you, and so does Mary. No - _listen." _Molly instructed when she saw him try to interrupt. "Every time I see Mary, she is as animated when talking about you as she is about John. She loves who you are, and what you bring to John's life. You're _family _to her Sherlock. You aren't being let go or left behind... you're just becoming a part of a larger family."

"_Family." _Sherlock shaped the word carefully in his mouth, curving each syllable and sound around his tongue, "I do not have too much experience with that."

"That doesn't mean you won't enjoy it." Molly barrelled on earnestly, "Maybe one day you'll make your own addition." _Wrong thing to say, _it occurred to her, as his head snapped to hers, his eyes flashing.

"_Who _would I add?" There was nothing contemptuous in his voice, no scorn or hint of cruelty. But there was a hardness, and she found herself regressed to the stammering and blushing of the past.

"Well, ah - I don't know! Maybe Mary's maid of honour? The one you danced with? You two seemed to get on!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her false cheeriness and his lips twisted sardonically.

"Jealous, are we, Doctor Hooper?"

"_No. _Just - _observing. _You notice my boyfriends, and that doesn't mean you're jealous."

"Doesn't it though?" Sherlock almost crooned, and Molly's mouth fell open, and she had to step away, to fumble for excuses, because why the _hell _had she followed him again?

"Stop it, Sherlock, just _stop it. _Have you been drinking? You, you - just _stop. _I won't do this anymore."

"Do _what, _exactly?" Sherlock shouted, his voice rising with each word. "You were the one who walked away from me. You made it perfectly clear that our acquaintance had reached its conclusion, without explaining _why. _And then you threw yourself at the first person you stumbled across!"

Spluttering and overwhelmed with information, Molly tried to formulate something coherent.

"..._What?" _Was her best attempt after several high-pitched sounds. Sherlock rolled his eyes, cursed, and then grabbed her.

Despite months of strict rules, designed to get her to move on with her life, the list of reasons why she should most definitely shove him away flew out of her head, and instead her arms clutched tightly around his neck, a hand slipping into his hair and gripping his curls firmly. Sherlock wasn't gentle or even kind, he pushed hard against her lips and nipped sharply. His hands wouldn't settle on one place: his grasp on her hips moved restlessly, up her torso, and through her hair, ripping out the bow that she had _liked. _She began to bargain desperately with herself: just one kiss. Just one, and then she would move to America or France or Antarctica - some place where people didn't play mind games.

Sherlock pulled away finally, his breath still ghosting over her mouth. "If these last few months were meant to be retribution for my past behaviour; a lesson in cruelty, then congratulations Dr. Hooper, you have _succeeded." _The sneer into her mouth sparked connecting neurons in her brain, as she began to put the obvious together. Sherlock made an aborted attempt to leave then, but Molly gathered his tuxedo jacket in her fists and yanked him back. He glowered down at her.

"You left." Molly accused firmly. "You left me to mourn your memory, with the knowledge that you would most likely die anyway."

"I was _protecting you." _Sherlock snarled. "If Moriarty's people found my connections to you, your life would have been put in jeopardy.

"You're telling me that you couldn't have sent _one _message through Mycroft?" Molly yelled, "I went back to see him over, and over, and endured his sneering and his condescension and his _laughing _at me, like I didn't have enough experience with the contempt of a bloody _Holmes." _

Sherlock ceased his struggles immediately, and peered down at her with a queer glint in his eye. "You spoke to Mycroft." He reaffirmed with genuine surprise. Molly nodded grumpily.

"I lost count of the number of times I went."

"He never told me."

Molly laughed as tears crept into her eyes and voice. "He never told you about the pathetic, lovesick girl who came back over and _over,_ just for a _word, _a _hint, _that you were at least alive." Molly shook her head, and Sherlock's hand found their way back to her face, cupping her cheeks firmly; his anger giving way to a frantic energy.

"My brother is fond of interfering with my life, and the people I consider important." He said intently. "I was unaware of your justified attempts to contact me, and I didn't think Mycroft would deliver any messages I left him. I will deal with him."

Molly started to feel foolish and blinked back her tears. She closed her eyes in an attempt to get her breath back, which Sherlock did not make easy, brushing a feather light kiss to each tender eyelid that made her gut _clench. _

"You are not pathetic." Sherlock rumbled, his voice deeper than usual, with no room for argument. "And I have never pitied you." Molly tried to interrupt, but Sherlock covered her mouth. "I have been a monster to you, more from inexperience with the emotions you evoked, and my overall thoughtless character rather than the "contempt" you have charged me with. I had intended to try and make up for our past when I returned, but you rejected me without giving me a reason, and ran off with a _Scotsman." _

"I did _not _'run off -'"

"I was there. You launched yourself completely into his arms." Sherlock interrupted again.

"You were _there?"_

"Of course I was - you were emotionally vulnerable at an establishment known for those who take advantage of people in your state. I left as soon as it became clear that you... were not being taken advantage of." Sherlock said, in a voice that he had no right to make vulnerable. She traced his cheekbone silently and evaluated her next words carefully.

"You had spent years rejecting me and pushing me away." She told him softly, to which he winced. "I'm not going to apologise for dating someone just because you decided to give into your emotions without telling me. How was I supposed to know that things had changed for you?"

"Not changed - rather, I decided to stop pretending they weren't there."

"You still didn't _tell me."_

"I was _going to. _But then you seemed to begin some version of an emotional cleanse, and I thought it best to give you space."

"And you did." Molly confirmed, and a light sparked boyishly in his eyes.

"I did." Sherlock repeated, softly, hopefully. "And you were jealous of Janine, meaning that your attempts to forget me have failed, and therefore there is no point to continue this policy."

"I was not jealous." Molly grumbled, unwilling to give that up.

"Molly, I am asking you to dispose of your Scotsman in favour of myself." Sherlock sighed. "If you could you kindly focus."

"Scotsman?" Sherlock glared. "What - _Craig? _We stopped seeing each other three weeks ago!" Sherlock's eyes widened comically, and she began to feel defensive. "What?" She demanded. "It wasn't _serious - _we stopped having fun, so we ended things. I think he might actually be dating a friend of mine now."

With a wild, exasperated cry, Sherlock cut her off and pressed his mouth to hers.

"How did I _miss _something that important?" He groused between embraces. Molly giggled into his mouth and leaned farther into him, until abruptly he pulled away.

"What?" She asked irritably.

"To be clear - _this _is 'serious,' to use your vernacular." Molly felt the smile break out across her face, her heart bursting.

"Okay." She said softly, as he returned to her mouth. "Okay."

"Okay." Sherlock told her imperiously, firmly, and it occurred to them both that it sounded like another vow.


End file.
